Mattress and Mystery

Since we are moving into a non-furnished apartment, and since I don't like standing upright for long/short/any periods of time, we decided that it would be normal for us to buy a mattress. So, I hit the streets and round up the usual suspects and shake down my contacts. I get the news that there is an unmarked warehouse in the southside of Murray, and that in this unmarked warehouse in the southside of Murray there are mattresses and mattresses. And boxsprings. And we all know what the southside of Murray is like. I speak to one of their correspondents, Boris Hubcap, which was obviously a false name, but what do I care as long as we get the goods?The deal is that we get a king-size mattress with two box springs for $299, under the counter, check only.

Maria and I arrive at the warehouse, Saturday, July 19th, 12:30 PM. I come dressed as a carnival popcorn vendor and I borrow a dancing monkey from a friend of mine who has monkeys. The monkey does not contribute in any way to my disguise as a carnival popcorn vendor; I merely want to see the monkey dance. Maria shows up shortly after the monkey and I, beneath the guise of Amelia Earhart. She looks lost and forgotten.

We pull aside some fake bushes, discover the Batbike, put them back, and then come across the front door. It is unlocked. We step into a dark room, and immediately bags are placed over our heads and burdens upon our shoulders. A woman with a Russian accent speaks to us.

"So, you have come to buy the mattress?" Maria and I are silent; we've played this game before.
"I return to repeat myself once more again," she says. "So, you have come to buy the mattress?"
Maria surprises herself and me by responding to the woman in perfect Russian. I assume that she is answering in the affirmative or that she is just having a really good day.

I hear the woman laugh a shrill laugh. "Ha, your words are useless to me. I do not speak Russian; I am just fond of the accent." She roughly removes the bags from our heads and we find that we are surrounded by mattresses of all shapes and sizes, or pretty much rectangular and twin to king sized. In the corner stands a bald man in a white lab coat.

"Now, Yegor, show these two what we mean, in our Russian accents, when we say "king sized mattress". The bald man in the white lab coat brings his fingers to his lips and whistles. Four men carrying a king-sized mattress arrive, followed by several dogs who had entered the warehouse. There is confusion for some time while the bald man herds the canines out of the building. He assures himself that all doors are shut and secure.

With a gesture of her hand, the woman with the Russian accent invites us to inspect the mattress. We do so, and Maria gives it a light kick with her right foot, and the bald man exhales quickly, almost a hiss. "It looks good," I say.

"Ah, but you must try it," says our Red friend. "Sit yourself, roll over, and bounce lightly." Maria and I do all three, in that order. I ask, "Can we try that whole wine glass trick?" The Russian-accented woman smiles slightly and says, "I never drink...wine." I have further questions.

"How long does it last?"

"Well, how long do you want it to last?"

"Um, forever?"

"Ha."

The bald man in the white lab coat barks a "ha" as well.

"What I mean to say, " I begin, but then end because I feel that she knows that I'm still getting at the whole longevity question.

"I...we recommend that you purchase a new one in seven or nine months."

"Wow. Seven or nine months. That's not a long time, is it?"

"To a dying man, seven or nine months is a long time to die."

"Okay. But what will happen to it in seven or nine months?"

"It will get, how you say in English with Russian accent, taco bed?" With her gloved hand she draws a U in the air.

"Hmm, that seems pretty quick, I say, " I say.

"Ah! But the boxsprings! Yegor, the boxsprings!" Yegor stands straight and claps his hands. The lights in the warehouse go out. Yegor claps his hands again and there is light. He does a light but audible tap dance and the four men return, this time with the boxsprings on their shoulders. Somewhere, I think, there is a five-year old boy crying over his missing bedsprings. The boxsprings are decorated with planets, spacemen and women, flying saucers, and other astral objects.

"There is everthing, the entire package," the woman says.

The conclusion to this account, in which Steve and Maria go to purchase the mattress, only to find that the last one of that kind has been sold to a buyer from an anonymous South American country, but are then given a much better mattress for the same price, only in much more detail and Russian-accents, will be included in tomorrow's entry.